


The End of Entropy

by SheilaPaulson



Series: The End of Entropy / Four in Hand [1]
Category: Blake's 7
Genre: Season/Series 05
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-03-14
Updated: 2003-03-14
Packaged: 2018-12-15 19:15:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11812470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SheilaPaulson/pseuds/SheilaPaulson
Summary: a happy-ending story!





	The End of Entropy

**Author's Note:**

> Note from oracne, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Bang and Blame](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Bang_and_Blame), a Blake’s 7 archive, which has been offline for several years. To keep the works available for readers and scholars, we began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project after June 2017. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on the [Bang and Blame collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/BangAndBlame/profile).
> 
> originally published in Gambit 8

Avon was startled when the prison ship's cell door opened and a guard entered, for since leaving Gauda Prime, he had been largely ignored. Servalan had informed him soon after his capture that his companions were dead, as Blake was dead, and Avon was not surprised. His only surprise was that any of them had lasted this long. She also told him a trial awaited him on Earth, and, at the end of it, execution, and Avon knew that while he would take a chance to escape if it waved itself in his face, he would not seek one out. There was remarkably little to live for.

Most of the guards had ignored him, but this one, a narrow eyed young man with a shock of blond hair and a deceptively youthful face had watched him carefully. Avon had believed him more cautious than his fellows, but now, as the man stood there, gun in hand, the tech began to wonder if the guard didn't have a private vendetta. He was not much past thirty, but his eyes wore the hollow look of someone who had seen too much misery in his short lifetime. Avon understood the feeling. He didn't sympathize, for that was not his way. Unwilling to make the first move, he pressed his lips together to avoid futile questions and waited for his death.

"I've taken the ship," the guard announced flatly as if he had done nothing outstanding. "The others are dead. I killed them all. As for you, I can land you on a neutral planet if you wish. I don't want you tagging along when I defect. Or I can shove you out the airlock with the other troops. Which is it to be?"

"I'm surprised you didn't do it without asking," returned Avon in an equally expressionless tone. "The neutral planet, I think. What of Sleer?"

"What of her?"

"Did you shove  _her_  out the airlock, too?"

"No. She was on the other ship. It left two days before this one, taking Blake's body back to Earth so she could claim the presidency, I think. Can you stop her?" His eyes brightened in malicious expectation.

Avon winced. He preferred not to remember Blake's body. "Does she have Orac?" he demanded.

"No. She was furious when you wouldn't talk, and the drugs didn't work. Either that or you don't know where Orac is."

"And now you expect me to tell  _you_? Do you think me a fool?"

"I don't want Orac," the soldier denied. "I want nothing more to do with the Federation. I saw what happened on Gauda Prime. I saw what Arlen did. I didn't like it. I've seen a great deal I never expected to see. I want out. There's sure to be work for me in the outer worlds somewhere. As for Orac, if you have it, more power to you. I only ask one thing. If you find it again, set it against her."

"Oh yes, I will do that, with pleasure," Avon conceded, "if you are telling the truth, something of which I am skeptical, I ask only access to the ship's computer."

"And you'll do what?"

"Something that concerns only me."

"And me," came a totally unexpected voice from the doorway. Avon jerked his head up in blank astonishment.

"Vila."

The thief entered the cell slowly, his eyes much colder than normal, no, no more cold than they had been since Malodaar. "I don't understand it, Avon, but we're free. He says he'll leave us on a neutral planet."

"Us?" echoed Avon. He was accustomed to protesting that he was never part of an 'us' but now he only asked, "Do you intend to remain with me, Vila?" Odd he would not scorn the other man's assumption.

The thief grimaced. "Where else is there? You once said I would be safe with you. I might have believed it then, for you used to keep your word." He held Avon's eyes accusingly. "You don't do that any more, but now that I know it, I can watch for it. I'll stick with you, Avon. I don't like you, but someone once said something about 'the devil you know.'"

Avon sighed, lacking the energy to argue. "All right, Vila." It didn't surprise him. He'd known since Malodaar that the bond between them had broken, and at the time, he had minded. Now he didn't mind much of anything, but he would go on surviving. Vila was not much, but he would watch his back.

The guard, who refused to give his name, let Avon at the computer for five minutes. He sent a prearranged message to Orac which would override any information since given to the little computer. Orac was instructed to simultaneously release across the galaxy the truth of Sleer's identity. Avon smiled as he keyed in the final code. If Blake had to die, then Servalan would profit nothing from his death.

Vila watched his hands as they hit the keys, then he met Avon's eyes. "Will that stop her, Avon?"

"Perhaps. Or perhaps it will simply drive her into hiding. We shall see."

By the time their anonymous benefactor had left them on the remote planet, Rovenial, the news had broken across the Federation that Servalan lived under the Sleer identity. This shocking report was followed by a report that she was on the run. Her pictures as Servalan and Sleer were displayed everywhere, for the Federation wanted her badly. Her ship vanished as if into thin air, and no one could find her.

On Rovenial, Avon and Vila went hunting for a ship of their own. Orac was still on Gauda Prime, but Avon used a computer link with it to transfer funds into an account for them and to create false identities. When he and Vila entered the nearest branch of the Federation Banking System and presented their forged ID's, they were greeted as valued customers and funding was immediately made available to them. Avon bought a ship and the two of them returned to Gauda Prime in search of Orac. It proved ridiculously easy. Now that Servalan's trap had been sprung there, the Federation had moved in, but Avon's false identity as one Ven Chevron held up, and Vila, as his aide Ait Lyon, also passed muster. Avon pretended an interest in seeing the place where the notorious rebel Blake had met his end, and the local people fell all over themselves to make it easy for them, perhaps in hopes of a good tip. Given a flyer, they went out and retrieved Orac.

"If it was so bloody easy to make yourself secure, why the hell didn't you do it sooner, Avon?" Vila asked resentfully on the way back to their ship.

"I had...responsibilities," Avon replied after a moment's silence. "Obligations. Now I have none, save only you."

"You're not responsible for me, damn you," snapped the thief, but momentary surprise glittered in his eyes before he concealed it behind a sullen mask.

"Perhaps not," Avon replied disinterestedly, "save that you chose to come with me."

"So far," replied Vila ominously. "I don't know I'll stay. It depends."

"On what?"

"What you plan next."

"I plan to make for myself a secure bolthole, so secure that no one can touch me again," Avon replied, his eyes on the flyer's controls. "Then, when it is finished, I plan to bring down the Federation once and for all."

"Blake's cause?" Vila asked, startled into meeting Avon's eyes. He quirked one amazed and knowing eyebrow at Avon.

"No," the computer tech denied flatly. "Blake...believed the rabble could govern themselves on day, though how he proposed that could happen, I was never quite certain. A lifetime on suppressants does not guarantee leadership qualities, Vila." He hoped that Vila had not noticed the way Blake's voice had caught in his throat.

"Then what? Destruction for its own sake, is that it, Avon?" asked Vila sourly. "Deliberate malice? You can't mock Blake for going ahead without a plan and then do the same thing yourself."

Avon smiled brilliantly, causing Vila to flinch before he turned away. "I plan to allow entropy to take its course."

"Oh, I see. Life has treated you badly, so everyone must suffer. Is that it? You're miserable so you're going to kick the rest of the universe in the pants. You always had a knack for overdoing it, Avon."

"Perhaps." He almost found Vila's comments amusing, but it would never do to show it. He chopped the word off as if he were hoarding them.

Vila shrugged. "Well, I'll come along," he decided after a few minutes consideration. "At least at first there'll be a secure bolthole. When civilization breaks down and we die because we can't get supplies or because scavengers kill us, at least we'll have been comfortable before."

"I also," Avon continued as they neared the spaceport, "plan to find Servalan."

Vila looked up sharply. "And?" he prompted.

"Kill her, Vila. With my bare hands."

"Let me come with you," asked Vila with a wealth of bitterness. "I'll help."

"Agreed." Avon landed the flyer and shut it down. "As for now, I would recommend we leave this planet immediately."

"Where are we going?" Vila demanded.

Avon bared his teeth in a poor copy of a smile. "Aristo, Vila. Now that we have Orac, we should be able to modify Ensor's base."

Vila's smile was the first genuine one yet. "That's brilliant, Avon."

"Of course it is."

#

It took a year to build themselves a secure hiding place on Aristo, using Ensor's old base and expanding it to meet their needs. The Phibians were a problem at first, especially since Avon found holding a gun difficult. The first time he'd picked one up and tried to shoot the alien creature, his hand shook so hard he couldn't fire it, and the panicked Vila had snatched it from his hand, wailing and complaining the whole time, and did it himself.

They never discussed the incident again, but after that, Avon forced himself to become comfortable with weapons again. He refused to rely on Vila for his survival, and while Aristo was relatively safe once they drove the Phibians away, the rest of the universe was dangerous. Avon would need to go armed.

Orac seemed pleased to return to its first home, but it was the only one of them who was. It went about busily deleting all information on the planet from the Federation computers, and it placed a plague warning in orbit to discourage the casual explorer. Perhaps one day Servalan herself might come here, but if she did, Avon would be ready. He spent hours each day at target practice, and he designed warning systems to alert them should anything come into orbit.

Once the base was completed to their joint satisfaction, Avon built a teleport for their ship, which Vila had sourly named Entropy. When the teleport was working well, Avon, Vila and Orac boarded the ship and went out into the galaxy again. Never gregarious, Avon had not missed the company of other people, but, as the months passed, he had occasionally found himself smiling when Vila's nature, which  _was_  gregarious, made him lower some of his barriers around Avon and start to treat him as he'd done on Liberator. He had not entirely forgiven Avon for Malodaar and Gauda Prime, but the two of them grew comfortable together in a wary peace because no one else knew either of them so well. Avon began to believe that Vila would watch his back, and he was surprised to discover he meant to watch Vila's, but neither of them would have claimed they were friends. They simply did what they must, and Avon told himself it didn't matter.

They roamed the galaxy, dipping occasionally into Federation space, for six months, searching for leads on Sleer, accessing every Federation record Orac could seek out. Servalan had always been too clever for the Federation but Avon doubted she was cleverer than the combination of himself and Orac. Eventually their research led them to a non-Federated world called Lustus, where a woman matching Sleer's description had been seen from time to time.

Vila enjoyed planetfalls, for invariably information was best bought in taverns and Vila liked taverns. He didn't drink much these days, having lost the habit on Aristo, but he liked the atmosphere of a good bar, even a bad bar, and Lustus had its share of them.

It was in the third bar they visited where they picked up their lead.

"Oh, you mean Sheed," one of the men told Vila, who had been plying him with liquor whilst Avon listened sourly. "Comes here sometimes for trading. Has a good fast ship and plenty of money. Pirates have tried to trail her, but none of them ever came back. She's good, is Sheed. A pirate herself, I think. Ruthless anyway. Hasn't been here for awhile. Comes here to see Arbee, sometimes."

"I should like to see Arbee," Avon spoke up, scenting a lead. "Who is he?"

"Old fellow who hangs around the bars. Some say he's mad, some say he's just a drunk. He and Sheed don't like each other, but there's some tie between them. She always talks to him when she comes."

A contact? Avon wondered if he might be an undercover agent still loyal to Servalan, if the mysterious Sheed were indeed Servalan. "Where can I find Arbee?" he asked.

"Come here tonight and you'll see him," the man replied, lifting his glass suggestively for Vila to fill. "Know him right off. White hair, long and shaggy, couple of obvious scars. I think he's crazy myself, but Joram over there--" he waved at the bartender--"has a kindness for him. But then I think Joram would have a kindness for Space Commander Travis, or even Kerr Avon."

"Surely not," Vila muttered irrepressibly, prodding Avon with his toe.

Amused in spite of himself, Avon decided he must speak sternly to Vila later. He doubted this crazy man would be much use, and he could not picture Servalan dealing with a drunk, but he did not plan to leave without finding out whether or not the woman was actually Servalan.

Evening found them in the tavern once more, sitting at a corner table, waiting for Arbee. Several hours passed whilst Vila nursed a drink or two and Avon controlled his impatience. Then Vila poked his arm and pointed.

Avon saw a white-haired man in stained and tattered leather come dragging in to lean against the bar. Joram, the bartender, passed him a glass without asking for payment and spoke to him in an undertone while the man downed the contents as if he couldn't taste them and held out the glass for a second drink. Joram shook his head abruptly, gesturing at his watch, and the man hung his head before he turned to cross the room. His gait was a trifle unsteady, but Avon suspected it was an old injury instead of drink that caused him to drag one leg. The blurred eyes peered around the room, and the man hesitated as if seeking out someone from whom he could cadge a handout. When he saw Avon and Vila, he stopped dead, his mouth opening as if in surprise. He must have believed them fresh prey.

He approached with more assurance, and something in his posture made Avon's eyes narrow--just before a solid fist crashed into his jaw. He had not expected violence, but for all his age and apparent infirmity, the big man was as strong as a bull. Before he realized what was happening, Avon was flat on his back on the filthy floor whilst Arbee pummeled him ruthlessly, if clumsily, with fists of steel.

Struggling furiously to shield his face and chest, Avon looked up--into Blake's eyes.

It was impossible. He froze, no longer defending himself, suddenly aware of Blake shouting, "I'm going to kill you! Murderer! You tried to kill me! I'm going to kill you!"

Vila, who couldn't see the attacker's face, tugged ineffectually at Blake's arm, crying, "Stop it, damn you. You're killing him." It took all his strength to grasp Blake's wrist and arrest a punch that would have broken Avon's nose.

Then Joram arrived, a big, burly man a good 20 kilos heavier than Blake with a leonine head and muscles of corded steel. He plucked Blake away with only marginal help from Vila and stood him upright. As he was pulled free of Avon, Blake collapsed in upon himself, remaining standing only because Joram held him under the arm, taking his weight. Vila gripped his other arm, turning furiously to lambaste him. Avon was mildly surprised to discover Vila being protective of him, but his surprise was lost in the overwhelming shock of finding Blake, a living Blake, the same Blake he had shot on Gauda Prime--alive, though not well.

Blake had aged terribly. His face was lined, his hair white and much too long. Now that he had been dragged out of his murderous frenzy, the blank stare returned to his face and he stood there unsteadily, a great shambling beast, lost and defeated.

Trying to check the blood that gushed from his nose, Avon stared at him, uncertain of his next move. "Blake?" he faltered, accepting the cloth that Vila passed him and pressing it to his nose. It muffled his voice, but Blake heard him and stared stupidly as if he hadn't been trying to pummel him into insensibility only moments before.

" _Blake_!" echoed Vila in blank disbelief, craning his neck for a better look at the man he helped restrain. When he saw Blake's face, he dropped the man's arm and backed away hastily, leaving Joram to strengthen his grip to keep Blake on his feet.

"Easy, Arbee," the bartender soothed. "No one will hurt you."

"The reverse, in fact," Avon muttered scornfully through his handkerchief. "Blake, you're supposed to be dead."

Blake's face sharpened to awareness again. "You tried hard enough," he said wearily, and for the first time he sounded sane, but he also sounded spent and defeated as if none of it mattered. "Go away, Avon," he added. "I want no part of you."

What of Servalan?" Avon challenged, determined to provoke a reaction from Blake. He was even more angered by Blake's apathy than he had been angered by the attack.

"She saved my life," Blake explained. "I wish she hadn't bothered."

Vila shot an uneasy glance at Avon, who turned abruptly to the bartender. "Have you a private room?"

To the disappointment of the gawking crowd, Joram showed them into a back parlor. Once he had led them inside, he closed the door on the main room and stood with his back against it, folding his arms across his chest. He looked as immovable as a tree.

"This is a private discussion," Avon informed him coldly.

"I'll go if Arbee tells me to go," the man returned, prepared to protect Blake's interests.

"It doesn't matter," Blake said flatly. "He can stay."

"It matters to  _me_ ," hissed Avon, but short of physically evicting the bartender or shooting him, he saw no means of removing him.

Blake saw a chair and sat down wearily, gazing up with no real interest. For a man who had been violent moments before, he was unnaturally calm now, and Avon was disconcerted at the sight. "What's the matter with you, Blake?" he demanded.

"What do you want me to say?" His anger spent, Blake sounded apathetic. "I wanted to kill you. You almost killed me. But what does it matter now?"

"Wait a minute, Blake," interrupted Vila urgently, his eyes intent on Blake's face. "Avon thought you'd sold us all to the Federation. That's why he shot you. We know now he was wrong, and it's been hell on him. Servalan's had you since then. How do you know you weren't programmed to hate Avon?"

"Perhaps I am," replied Blake, his eyes on his hands which were folded in his lap. The pose appeared relaxed, but his knuckles were white. "I don't see why she'd bother. I need no excuse for that. Besides, the Federation wants her too. Even taking me in now wouldn't prevent her execution."

"Then why does she visit you here?" asked Avon suspiciously.

"To make sure I haven't run, I think." Blake studied him, then his eyes passed on to the thief. "I need a drink, Vila," he said, selecting him as the one most likely to understand his need. "Get me a drink, will you?"

"No. You don't need a drink, Blake." Vila sounded upset. Though he had often encouraged his own reputation for drinking too much, it had seldom been an actual problem for him. The thought of Blake with a drinking problem seemed to disconcert him.

Blake looked past him. "Joram, please?" he begged. Avon shuddered. Blake shouldn't need to beg. The old Blake had never done, not in that desperate voice. The man who had manipulated Kerr Avon with consummate skill had been replaced by a bitter, hopeless drunk, and Avon's contempt was tinged with reluctant pity.

"Oh, give him a drink," he remarked in a throwaway tone. "What does it matter? We didn't come for him anyway, only to find Servalan."

Blake raised his face, betraying no hurt at the cruelty of Avon's words. "She comes here," he said. "Will you kill her, Avon?"

"With my own hands."

"Then she is coming tomorrow." Something gleamed momentarily in the emptiness of Blake's face, but it faded quickly. He was trembling slightly but that might have been his need for alcohol.

"Then she will die tomorrow," said Avon coldly.

"You'll kill Sheed?" asked the bartender with interest. Evidently he knew her identity.

Avon glared at him. "Have you an objection?"

The big man spread his hands in a throwaway gesture and shook his head emphatically. "None, as long as you don't kill her in my place."

"Well now," Avon returned, "I will kill her where I deem it most convenient." He gestured at Blake. "Not in front of  _him_ , perhaps. In his condition, he might even help her."

"Oh, no, Avon. I won't help her," Blake assured him. For a moment, he sounded almost normal, then he sagged back again. "I won't help you either. I don't want any part of you. Keep away from me, Avon."

"That was my intention."

"But Avon," burst out Vila in protest, "it's  _Blake_."

"Is it?" Avon studied him. "No, Vila. You mean it  _was_  Blake."

Vila glared at Avon. "So now what? We just discard him? Throw him away so you won't have to see what you've done to him, is that it? I thought  _I_  was supposed to be the coward."

"What would you have me do, Vila?" the computer tech demanded. "Take him home and dry him out? What's to stop him strangling me in my sleep?"

"The fact that he probably doesn't have the energy to do it," Vila argued, pointing at Blake's sagging figure. "He used to be one of us. I say we should try. You wouldn't have shot him if you'd thought he was on our side." His voice softened as if he realized that mention of Gauda Prime could only add to their problems. "You didn't go there to kill him. We owe him, Avon."

"And Servalan? For all we know, he could be programmed to kill me. She'd enjoy that kind of revenge."

"Then Orac can deprogram him," insisted Vila. "Even if it can't, how much harm can Blake do us at home? At least we should try. Leave him here, making a fool of himself in front of strangers? I don't like it, Avon."

Avon didn't, either, but he was not prepared to watch this ruin of Blake every day, to try and dry him out and return him to his former self--and fail. He'd rather kill Blake himself than leave him like this though, and he couldn't bring himself to kill Blake out of hand, not after Gauda Prime.

Joram approached and put a comforting hand on Blake's shoulder. "Arbee? Blake, I mean. What do  _you_  want? It sounds like Avon never meant to try to kill you. It was only a misunderstanding."

"I'm sure that makes all the difference." Hurt and vulnerability filled Blake's voice, though his face was bitter. It was only marginally better than apathy. He shrugged off the big man's hand.

"We'll take him with us," confirmed Vila as if it were all settled. "Won't we, Avon?"

Avon almost said no, then he shrugged. "Why not?"

"I might have something to say about it," Blake retorted, rallying slightly.

"Indeed?" Avon sneered. "Since your life here is so wonderful? Masochism does not become you, Blake."

"Sarcasm has never become you, Avon. Leave me alone. Everyone else has."

Avon drew back. "Ah, self pity. I should have expected that." He stepped forward and grasped Blake's arm, pulling him to his feet. "Come along, Blake."

"No." Blake tugged his arm free. Then a spark of curiosity began to glow in his eyes. "Where?"

"Our ship," Vila explained, joining Avon and taking hold of Blake's other arm. "We have a new base now, Blake, and nobody's searching for us any more, so it's safe enough."

"It will only remain so if you don't tell the galaxy its location," Avon cut in sharply.

Joram patted Blake on the shoulder. "If you're worried about me, don't be. I'd not betray him. A long time ago, back on Earth, I used to follow him."

"And so great is your concern that you permitted--this?" Avon's lip curled. "I'm sure he's grateful for the attention. Or perhaps he's simply grateful for the alcohol."

"He came to me that way," Joram replied in defense of himself. "Sheed--or Servalan if you want honesty--dumped him here. I think she knew I used to be in Blake's group back on Earth--and that I've long ago given up such things as causes. But she gave me a new one. He's better than he was when he first came here."

Avon eyed Blake doubtfully. "Better?" If this was better, how bad could he have been? Avon could not ignore the consequences of his action on Gauda Prime, not when it stood before him.

"I think she did program him, Avon," the former rebel admitted. "I did what I could, but I can't counteract programming. What I could do was allow him progressively less alcohol. Drying him out won't be your main problem, if you've a secure base where you can restrict the liquor. I don't know what games she played with his mind."

Any enthusiasm Avon might have had for the project of sobering Blake faded to zero, but he had committed himself and could not draw back now. His only advantage was Orac, something Servalan might never expect to be available to Blake. On the run, she might have had access to less effective programming, too, and succeeded only because of Blake's bitterness toward the man who had nearly killed him.

"We can work on that," Vila offered hopefully.

Blake regarded him with suspicion. "Orac?" he asked.

Vila nodded. "Come on, Blake. We'll take you back to the Entropy and let you sleep it off."

Something that might have been humor flashed briefly in the rebel's eyes at the name of the vessel, but it died a hasty death. He heaved a sigh so vast it seemed to shake his whole body, then he nodded. "Why not?" Something cool flashed in his eyes. "Do I disturb you, Avon?"

"Not particularly," returned Avon unconvincingly.

Blake smiled as if he recognized the obvious lie. "Good. I'll come. What about the boy?"

Feeling as if he'd missed a page of script, Avon stared at Blake. "Eh?"

"What boy?" burst out Vila.

"Servalan's pet. Tarrant. Your old friend."

Avon and Vila exchanged shocked glances. "Tarrant's  _alive_?" Vila cried. "And he's working for Servalan?"

"I should doubt it's voluntary," Blake returned. "I'm not the only one whose mind she altered. She brings him here each time she comes. Usually he's as impassive as a mutoid, but he's not one. I watch him. At first I hated him for triggering the debacle on GP, but that was before I saw how she'd used him. When you kill her, Avon, bring him with us."

"I am not operating a rehabilitation center for Federation rejects," Avon snapped. He turned to Vila and quirked an expectant eyebrow at the other man. "Well?"

"Well?" echoed Vila.

"I am waiting for you to cry, 'but it's Tarrant. We must save him.'"

Vila bit back a smile. "Consider it said. We'll rescue him too. Think of it this way, Avon. It will thwart whatever plan she had. Besides, Tarrant was just starting to be bearable."

"But then you have a greater tolerance for fools than I have."

Vila grinned at him. "I'm glad we came."

It was the last thing Avon had expected him to say. He glanced at Blake, feeling something contract painfully in his stomach at the sight of him. Vila was  _glad_  they had come? He did not remotely begin to understand.

"Well, now at least we've found a purpose," Vila explained, dropping a hand on Avon's forearm and squeezing it. "Killing Servalan was never enough. It was too negative."

"It will still be effective," Avon returned. He didn't shake off Vila's hand but Vila removed it anyway.

Unexpectedly, Blake chuckled. "He's right, Avon. Killing her will only allow a momentary satisfaction. Why do you think I've never done it?"

"The likely reply is programming. On the other hand, you seem quite capable of violence."

Blake shivered, the tremors running through his entire body. "I've hated you this last year and a half, Avon. I've hated you more than I knew it was possible for me to hate another human being. When I saw you, something snapped inside me."

Avon removed the cloth that he had been dabbing periodically at his nose and studied the bloodstains on it. "Apparently. Must I guard myself against further homicidal tendencies, Blake?"

"No. I think I'll enjoy letting you live. Death is too clean, too final." He pulled free of Vila and Joram. "I can walk, damn you. Where's this ship of yours?"

#

Morning restored no one's spirits very much. Blake had been put to bed in a spare cabin without the drink he'd pleaded for. He had protested bitterly, his hands shaking a little. An unhappy Vila had volunteered to sit with him, and Avon had permitted it but had ordered Orac to monitor the room and alert him if Blake tried to leave. Needless to say, Orac resented the command fiercely, but was made to see reason at last.

Avon slept poorly, his dreams haunted by Blake, by images of his bloodstained body lying in the control room on Gauda Prime, by the despair he'd glimpsed in his old companion's eyes. Avon had believed he would be satisfied with Servalan's death, but what she had done to Blake was too serious to be punished so easily. Death was too kind for her. He had long thought himself past the ability to feel anything, but the sight of Blake had shattered that illusion. Watching Vila fuss over Blake, his eyes worried, brought another unexpected realization to Avon, that of his great debt to Vila. When everyone else was gone and nothing was left, Vila had stood beside him, even in spite of his own resentments. Once Avon would have considered the thief a fool for his loyalty. Now he was startled to discover how grateful he was. Without Vila, there would be no point of taking this any further. But Vila was his ally, so Avon would have to try. He told himself he was a sentimental idiot to even think of trying to restore Blake to his former idealistic self, but it was a debt that he must pay. He could not endure the knowledge that Blake had been brought so low.

He dragged himself out of bed unrefreshed and went in search of coffee and Orac. In the control room he found a bleary eyed Vila and a weary looking Blake bent over the computer. Vila didn't react to Avon's arrival, but Blake jumped as if the sound of unexpected footfalls meant a dire threat.

"Easy," muttered Vila, making a reassuring gesture in Blake's direction. "It's only Avon." His eyes measured Avon's mood and he smiled too brightly. "Good morning, Avon, you look as bad as we do. Bad night?"

"What do you expect, Vila?" he snarled, unwilling to be placated, even by Vila's familiar and comforting prattle.

The thief backed down at once. "We've been talking to Orac. Servalan's ship came in overnight. We think we've found out why she left Blake here."

"Interesting. Why?"

"Bait," Blake replied laconically. He looked terrible, his eyes bloodshot, with great bags under them, his hair tangled as if he couldn't be bothered to keep it tidy, a wry twist to his mouth as if he wanted to go off somewhere and be sick. "She staked me there, a tethered goat, waiting for you. She lost everything thanks to you, Avon. Even if it kills her, she wants to make you pay. So she did this to me." He gestured at himself. "Well," he contradicted himself, "some of it. You can claim your fair share of it, my old friend." The word came out sarcastic and bitter. "She left me here in hopes the word would reach you, that you'd come for me. It seems she was more right than she knew. That also means she has to have an informer here. She would go off for months at a time. Someone here must have been prepared to tell her you'd come."

"It's a trap. I knew it was a trap," moaned Vila. That kind of complaint was a knee jerk response with him, but he drew his mouth in a tight line, ready to stick it out if Avon did.

"Perhaps," Avon replied. "She may not know we've reasoned that out. What can you tell us, Orac?" he demanded, sliding the computer's activator key into place.

*Servalan's ship contains a crew of three, Del Tarrant and two mutoids,* replied the little computer in its fussy, pedantic voice. *They arrived four point six hours ago.*

"I warned Joram," Blake put in before Avon could ask further questions. "Or rather, Vila did it for me. He says he will go to ground until it's over."

Since Joram's safety meant nothing to Avon, he ignored that. "What do you suggest, Orac?" he asked.

*Entropy is a faster vessel than Servalan's,* the computer replied. *It is my recommendation that we depart immediately.*

"We can't, you box of nuts and bolts, there's Tarrant to deal with," Vila reminded the computer. "How do we get him away from her?"

As if in answer to the question, Orac announced, *I am receiving a signal from the planet.*

"Put it through, Orac," Avon ordered, absently rubbing his bruised cheekbone.

It was Joram, and he sounded upset. "Avon, I must warn you: Sheed was just here and she's hunting for Blake. Someone in the bar told her you had come, and now she's trying to find your ship. I told her you were docked in sector 4, but she'll soon find out I've lied. This might be the ideal time to stake out her ship and wait for her."

Avon's eyes narrowed and he turned to Vila, his hand hovering over the 'transmit' switch. "Well, Vila? Opinion?"

Blake turned his head and stared at Avon in some surprise, but Vila only frowned, poking his tongue about in his cheek as he considered it. "It's a chance," he said at last. "Ask him about Tarrant?"

Avon flipped the toggle. "Was she alone?"

"No, she had a young man with her. He had on a Federation Space Captain's uniform and he had curly hair. As tall as I am but a lot thinner, and no expression on his face at all. He's been here with her before. I'd suspect he was a mutoid except once there was a fight going on and he got caught up in it. Enjoyed himself mightily until he remembered Sheed and then all the joy went again. But he's good with a gun, so watch yourself. She had two mutoids as well. A dead giveaway, when you think about it."

"Thank you for the warning," Blake called out before Avon could raise his hand to switch off. "I'm grateful." He didn't appear grateful. He looked like he wanted to ask the bartender to shove a drink over the comm link for him, and his hands were gripping the edge of the console tightly as if to still their shaking.

Avon broke the connection. "This might be the time to choose our position," he decided, aiming his questioning look somewhere in between Blake and Vila. "Do you trust him?"

Blake seemed startled at being addressed, then he smiled faintly. "He's been good to me. Yes, I trust him, Avon."

It wasn't the best reassurance there was, but it might be their only opportunity to take a shot at Servalan, so Avon nodded. "I want you to stay here, Blake."

"No," objected the rebel with an edge of heat in his voice. "I want to see her die. You won't deny me that, will you, Avon?"

"I hardly think it matters," he returned, but something in Blake's eyes made him hesitate. "Very well, but you aren't allowed a weapon. Understood?"

"Understood," Blake conceded reluctantly. "I only hope you don't regret it."

After arming himself and Vila, Avon led the way off the ship. He considered going into orbit and teleporting directly to Servalan's ship, but he preferred to keep the knowledge of the teleport secret, and there was a chance she might discover it and escape. It might come in handy later, though she was bound to know he could build a teleport with Orac's help. He fastened on his bracelet, while Vila snatched up two of them and passed one to Blake, who received it with slight surprise and clasped it around his wrist automatically.

There was nothing but normal activity in the docking area, people going about their business; traders, pilots and crew of various ships, merchants and businessmen, travelers preparing to depart, newcomers arriving on Lustus for their own diverse reasons. Servalan was nowhere in sight, which pleased Avon. Perhaps they might...

"I should stand very still if I were you."

Tarrant. Avon recognized his voice before he saw the young pilot emerge from the shelter of a stack of barrels. He looked like he'd aged ten years in the past year and a half, and he didn't seem to recognize any of them. Programmed, then. He'd always been good with a gun, and he'd lost none of his skill, because the weapon was leveled at Avon dead on and his hand was as steady as a rock.

"Tarrant!" Vila squeaked in astonishment, backpedaling a couple of steps in surprise and alarm. "What are you doing, pointing a gun at  _us_? You're supposed to be on  _our_  side."

"Forget it, traitor," Tarrant returned flatly, no answering spark visible in his cold blue eyes. "You betrayed my boss and she wants you out of the way. I don't know why you're mixing with these people, Arbee. We always took care of you. Are you turning against us too?"

"At least we're not brainwashed," Vila retorted, taking a cautious and measuring step toward Tarrant, his hand edging closer to his weapon. Before he could draw it, there was a new distraction. Behind the younger man, the two mutoids appeared. They stood apart to allow Servalan space to slip between them. She glided into position as if she were wearing one of her elegant gowns instead of plain brown fatigues. She had coaxed her hair into a longer style, still short, of course, in an attempt at further disguise.

"Avon," she breathed. "So it  _is_  you. I had hoped for it."

"I've come here to kill you, Servalan," Avon replied, his eyes boring into hers. When she appeared, he had felt his muscles twist into knots.

"Why, Avon, when there has been so much between us?" she breathed in a sultry tone. "I should never have thought it of you." She tilted her head and peered at him through her long lashes.

"You never understood me, Servalan," he returned, unimpressed this time by the blatant seductiveness of her pose. "You saw me only as you chose. But you made one mistake too many." He gestured in Blake's direction. "What have you done to him?"

"Why, Avon, only a bit of compliance drugging. So easy, once you begin." She smiled, wrinkling her nose like a cat. "I've quite perfected the art." One hand waved languorously in Tarrant's direction. "As you can see."

"As I can see," he agreed. "A pity you went to so much effort for such a small gain, but it's over now. I don't intend you to survive, Servalan."

She made a choppy motion with her hand and one of the mutoids began to raise her gun. Without hesitation, Avon shot both mutoids. Blake cried out something unintelligible, and Vila darted forward toward Tarrant, as if to grab his gun. The young pilot stared at him, his face suddenly blank, and he made no attempt to fire. Had Vila's uncharacteristic action startled him into shaking off his conditioning?

Servalan smiled and raised her own gun. Avon half turned, expecting her to fire at him, but instead, she leveled her weapon at Vila. What occurred next surprised Avon more than anything else that had happened. "Vila!" he cried in warning and flung himself at the thief, shoving him out of the way. Vila pitched forward with an astonished yell just as the charge struck Avon in the chest. He froze, arrested in his movement, the force jerking him up, then the pain hit, so agonizing that he could not hold back the cry that squeezed itself through his clenched teeth.

Time slowed down, and as he fell he saw Tarrant's face. The younger man jerked as if the charge had struck him, too, then a wave of astonishment rolled across his face like a wave breaking on the shore. His mouth dropped open and he began to shiver violently, mouthing the word, 'Avon,' in stunned recognition.

Without a moment's hesitation, he spun around and shot Servalan.

It was the last thing Avon saw before the darkness claimed him.

Vila cried, "Avon!" in horrified realization and flung himself at his friend's body. "Damn her," he burst out. "If she's already dead, Tarrant, you'll be sorry. I want her." He fumbled for Avon's wrist, then raised worried eyes to the other two. "Well, come on then, help me with him. We have to take him back to the ship. Quick. Blake, damn you, move. Tarrant, are you yourself?"

"I...I think I..." Tarrant dropped the gun and stood shakily staring down at Avon. "Vila? I...where..."

"Well, you're not much use. Pick him up, you great lout. Do you hear me, pick him up. Not you, Blake, you're not steady enough on your feet. That's right, Tarrant, pick him up." He helped settle Avon into Tarrant's arms, and steered him and Blake in the direction of the ship. Avon was too badly hurt to risk using the teleport, and they were so close to Entropy that this would be nearly as quick.

They had left Orac's key in place in case they needed a hasty departure, and now Vila bawled, "Orac!" as they boarded the ship. "Seal her up tight and prepare to take off, but don't yet. Find out who the best medic on this damned world is and have him stand by. I might want him here. And fire up the medical section, now." He led the way there, and guided Tarrant over to the med table, where he deposited Avon. Blake stepped forward as soon as the tech was lying down.

"What do you want me to do?"

It didn't seem strange to Vila to be in charge. Lately Avon had treated him as an equal, though he'd not seemed to recognize what he was doing. The two of them planned things together, and Avon often listened to Vila's suggestions and theories. Frequently, he mocked them, but he did not become irate if Vila mocked his own. The last few months had almost become pleasant to Vila, and now it might all be over. To think that Avon had saved his life. He would have been the one lying there, if not for Avon, and he tore open his friend's shirt with shaking fingers.

"Tarrant, run the blood work," he said. "Do you have mind enough for that?"

"I...yes." Tarrant punched buttons on the console before him, checking readouts as if by rote, whilst the table itself ran a diagnostic scan. "Good equipment, this," the pilot said. "He's losing some but not as much as I thought. How bad is it?"

"Bad," Vila returned, biting his lip when his voice broke. With an effort, he steadied it. "But I think he...Blake, what are you reading on the meds scan?"

"He needs blood replacement and a combatant to shock. I can run it." He frowned, struggling to understand the unfamiliar equipment, then he punched in several codes and a syringe lowered to press against Avon's arm, feeding him the needed drugs by pneumatic spray. At once Avon's breathing eased. Only in the near silence did Vila realize how loud it had been before.

Tarrant completed the blood measurements while a sleeve wrapped itself around Avon's arm, a needle inserting and beginning to administer replacement blood whilst the device regulated it and measured the blood loss. "Under control," he announced. "How bad is the wound?"

"It's a great messy thing," Vila replied, refusing to become squeamish, "but I think it's mostly surface. I wish we had those healing pads from Liberator. They'd have this in condition quickly enough. I'll just clean it up and see if a synthetic spray will be enough to repair it."

It seemed to take hours to clean the wound and determine the extent of the damage. Most of it was to the chest muscles and the synthetic spray would heal it well enough, though his chest and arm would be stiff and sore for a week or so and would probably require some therapy afterwards. Orac could design a work-out program. The three men worked together under Vila's tutelage, until the task was completed and Vila set the equipment to monitor him, administer whatever medication might be needed and to alert them in case of difficulty. When it was done, he drew up a stool and sat down abruptly. Now that it was over, his hands were shaking. He gazed at Avon's shuttered face, the bruises from his run-in with Blake in the bar all the more dramatic in contrast to his pallor. Vila gulped, put his hands over his face and gave way to tears.

It was Blake who put his arm around Vila's shoulders and gave him a reassuring hug, the kind he'd been so good at in the old days. "Easy, Vila, he'll be fine."

"No thanks to either of you. Where were you when he needed you? Swigging down the booze or playing footsie with Servalan? Damn it, I can't do it all myself." That recalled him to his senses and he dashed a hand across his eyes in irritation. "Now there's the two of you. Drugs, Blake. I bet they were in the liquor you got from your 'friend', Joram. Betrayed you, didn't he? Nobody else could have done it. It wasn't liquor, though you thought it was. Drug addiction, I'll bet. We'll run some tests whilst we're here. What about you, Tarrant? A drug reaction too? No, more likely you're mostly programmed. You came out of it on your own, didn't you?"

"I didn't even recognize you," Tarrant babbled, shaking with sudden reaction. "I've been with her for over a year, and I didn't realize what was going on. It never felt quite natural, but I couldn't remember anything else. Part of it was seeing you three, and Avon calling her Servalan. But when she tried to shoot Vila and did shoot Avon--I still can't remember everything, but it's coming clear. No wonder you had such a hard time breaking conditioning, Blake. It's bad, isn't it? I feel like I'll shake apart in a minute."

"Then have a lie down," urged Vila. "Both of you. We'll run tests on you. Joram must have been working for her, Blake. He said he'd decoyed her away, but instead he lured us in. Someone right on hand had to be running you or we might have sneaked in and taken you away without her knowing. I'm sorry, Blake." He turned to Tarrant. "I know you're confused, but we don't have time for that. Roll up your sleeve. I'll want blood samples from both of you."

As the two men complied Vila started running tests though his attention kept sliding back to Avon. There hadn't been time to determine if Servalan were alive, but perhaps, if she lived, Avon would be the one to kill her. Perhaps no one else had as much right.

#

For a long, jumbled time voices and movements prodded at the edges of Avon's consciousness and he could not quite make sense of them. They tugged at his awareness, irritating him, until finally he began to concentrate, trying to understand. He couldn't think, couldn't remember, and that was disturbing enough to break through to him. He tried to move only to freeze into stillness as a wave of pain broke over him, jarring his chest and arm. Unable to bite back a moan, he held himself still, suddenly remembering.

Servalan.

It came clear abruptly, the scene outside the ship, the devious expression in the woman's eyes as she pointed her gun at Vila, his own instinctive response. Was Vila safe? Was Servalan dead, or was he her prisoner?

"...think he's coming around." It was undeniably Vila's voice, full of relief. When had Vila stopped resenting him for Malodaar and started worrying about him? When had he begun to worry about Vila?

"He'll be all right, Vila." Oddly enough, it was Tarrant's voice. "Come back and finish this now." The pilot sounded half dazed, as if he had been through a trauma of his own. Remembering his responses out there, Avon suspected he'd managed to break conditioning and remember who his allies were.

"How long will it take?" That was Blake: so he was still present. The annoying note of weakness in his voice had been stiffened into nonexistence by a new resolve, causing him to sound more like the old Blake. Avon was not quite certain if that would be an advantage.

"Impatient?" Tarrant asked him.

"As much as you would be if we could do this for you," Blake responded.

*It will take a minimum of three hours to purge your system, Blake,* Orac announced pedantically. *That, of course, will not remove the compulsion for the drug. Only time will do that. The drug does not exist at home, so you will find the next few days difficult ones.* Avon was surprised, for Orac almost sounded sympathetic, and in his vague and lightheaded awareness, Avon found it funny that, like himself and Vila, Orac called the Aristo base 'home.' He wondered if Blake would pick up on it. The old Blake would have done.

The 'new' Blake didn't disappoint him. "Home, Orac?" Avon could almost see the quirked eyebrow that accompanied the question.

"Our base," Vila replied without revealing any further information. Remarkably cautious of him. But perhaps he had never rated Vila highly enough. "Quite a pleasant place, actually. You'll see when we arrive. There, Blake. Is that comfortable?"

"Not exactly the word I'd choose, but it's bearable, Vila."

"What about me? She indicated I'd some drug conditioning too," Tarrant reminded Vila.

*In your case, a program of memory suppression and reality reconstruction was initiated to convince you you had never defected from the Federation until your 'leader', Servalan, was forced into concealment, first as Commissioner Sleer, and then as the pirate Sheed,* Orac informed him. *You were made to believe that your loyalty was always to her. This program was initiated through drug therapy, the drug triaxin. Once the new beliefs were in place, the presence of Servalan and her manner toward you maintained your perception of the program's reality. The major risk she took was the repeated exposure to Roj Blake. But as Blake's looks have altered and since Servalan chose to call him Arbee, a false name formed from his initials, any confusion would eventually fade away.*

"Perhaps the fact that I largely ignored him when they came helped," Blake returned. "I didn't much care what happened to me by then. I didn't know it was the result of drugs. When I thought of it at all, I believed myself an alcoholic, but I was too far gone to realize that it was only the drinks I had from Joram that satisfied me." Blake would resent the mind control more fiercely than anything. He had been forced to doubt his own reality once before, and now it had happened again. "Damn her," he muttered. "This was all her plan. Did you kill her, Tarrant?"

"I'm not sure. There was so little time. I aimed to kill, but she was moving and so was I." He muttered a curse. "Orac can find out."

*I am otherwise occupied,* Orac reminded him haughtily.

"You can find out later, there's a good computer," Vila put in. Avon could imagine him patting Orac's housing, and the computer's irritation.

The throbbing in his chest and shoulder distracted him and he tried to ease his position. Orac at once announced, *I would recommend the administration of a painkiller to Avon.*

Tarrant and Vila all but fell over each other to reach his bed. "Avon?" Vila asked tentatively. "Are you alive then?"

Opening his eyes, Avon saw genuine concern in the thief's eyes, which was instantly hidden by his usual expression when he saw Avon watching him.

"More or less," Avon replied. "Though I wonder what insanity put me into the path of her gun."

"It's called altruism," Blake remarked from the other bed, where tubes ran into each arm. "I'm told it can be self taught." There was a hint of malice in his voice as if he relished rubbing Avon's nose in it.

"It was instinctive," Avon returned. Ignoring Blake for the moment, he turned back to Vila. "You weren't hurt?" he asked curtly as if the information meant nothing to him.

Vila's eyes warmed, but he replied, "Well, if people will be so clumsy as to fall into me, I'm bound to collect a bruise or two. None as dramatic as yours though." He caught himself, biting his bottom lip as if he wanted to take back the reference to Blake's frenzied attack the night before. "No, don't try to sit up," he persisted, holding Avon's good shoulder to keep him in place. "If you're very good, we may let you up day after tomorrow."

"I shouldn't push it if I were you." Vila seemed elated, riding the high of their close escape. Or perhaps it was the presence of Blake--and even Tarrant--that moved him. The isolation of the two of them on Aristo had disturbed Vila. Perhaps he welcomed the return of two of their old companions, though they seemed dubious allies at best.

Dubious, perhaps, possibly still programmed, but Avon felt no urge to be rid of them. Blake had been drugged into this condition, another thing to hold against Servalan, if she still lived. Tarrant's mind, such as it was, had been tampered with. Odd that he would come out of it on his own. Or perhaps not so odd. It was possible Avon had underestimated Tarrant. He had shot Servalan without hesitation. Though Avon would have preferred to kill her himself, he could appreciate Tarrant's actions.

"Tarrant," he said by way of greeting. "Still behaving recklessly, I see?"

"I had your splendid example to follow." Tarrant's mouth quirked in a sour grin. He was still shaky, his expression carefully controlled, but the hollow coldness had gone from his eyes. He eyed the medical unit with the attitude of a man who had been given a new home and who wanted to assess it properly to determine its value. Yes, that was like Tarrant. Orac could run tests and determine what needed to be done to free him from any lingering programming.

"Did you ever hear anything about Dayna or Soolin?" Vila asked him hesitantly.

A shutter went across Tarrant's face and the flashing teeth were hidden as his mouth traced a hard line. "Dayna died on Gauda Prime," he returned, his eyes on the floor. "Arlen killed her outright. As for Soolin..." He hesitated, casting a measuring look at Avon, as if to judge his response. "She's dead too," he said finally. His tone discouraged questions, but the pain in his eyes spoke of a recent tragedy. Avon let it go. There had been enough tragedies. It might come easier later.

The painkiller that Vila had administered began to take effect, and Avon relaxed his taut muscles, feeling an urge to sleep. Forcing himself to alertness, he said, "Vila? What's our position?"

"We're on our way home. Orac says no one's tried to follow us and we're beyond the range of any detectors short of Liberator's. We'll be there in three days. That'll give me time to finish purging Blake's system and to run some tests on Tarrant."

Weary and sore, Avon still found a smile. "And what will you do with your other hand?"

The corners of Vila's mouth fought a losing battle and finally gave way as he grinned back. He patted Avon's shoulder again with something that resembled affection. "Go to sleep," he said, then he turned to Tarrant. "Come on, over here and let Orac work. Quietly if you please. If we wake him up again, he's sure to be unbearable."

Avon planned on it.

#

Blake felt as if someone had dipped him in ice water and then wrung him out. Every bone in his body ached, his head throbbed, and he still felt moments of vague disorientation. Though Orac had reported his system clear of the drugs that Joram had been slipping him, his body still craved them, and he spent hours pacing the flight deck and the medical unit, trying to distract himself from the need that Servalan had inflicted upon him. He hoped with all his heart that she was dead.

To distract himself from the constant prickles and itching that plagued him, he set himself the task of learning the functions of Avon's and Vila's ship, Entropy. The name alone spoke of the hard times the two of them had faced, and Vila's careless references to Avon's long term plan to bring down the Federation and leave nothing in its place convinced Blake that Avon had hit rock bottom for a time. He questioned Vila skillfully, shaken to the core as Vila described their first months on their base, barely speaking to each other, united only by the years they'd endured together and the shared pain that neither of them would acknowledge. Blake did not blame himself for any of that, for he had intended Gauda Prime no more than Avon had, but he felt regret that it had not happened differently.

The urge to murder Avon in revenge had gone entirely, and though his resentment still lingered, the bulk of it had been washed away with the drug. Now, when he visited the medical unit and helped Vila and Tarrant to care for Avon, he felt curiously empty, unable to respond to any of them except in a distant, impersonal way. He hated what had happened to them, he felt regret for Tarrant's conditioning, for Avon and Vila's lonely exile, for the bad feelings that lingered between them all. His emotions seemed more like the reaction of someone attending a play. It hardly seemed real yet, and the suffering he still observed was distant, as if it were happening to fictional characters or even casual acquaintances. He was not prepared to become involved again, and he did not know if he ever would.

His Cause, too, seemed less important, something he suspected he would work round to again one day, when he was healed. What Servalan had done to each of them rankled, and he wanted to prevent that from recurring, but he could not quite take that beyond the theoretical stage. His fire had been quenched, and he lacked the strength or the ardor to ignite it again.

Avon and Vila squabbled constantly, but it felt different, and he realized that during their year of isolation on their as yet unnamed base, they had become friends. Neither of them acknowledged it in so many words, and Blake suspected they had not even guessed how much the other had come to mean to them until the events on Lustus. Now, an almost embarrassed comradeship existed between them that took the sting from the ready insults they flung at each other.

In a way, he resented it. It contributed to his sense of isolation, made him feel unimportant in the overall scheme of things. The casual and impatient disinterest Avon flung at him when he wasn't trying to pick a fight, was the only thing that irritated Blake enough to respond with more than indifference. At the first trace of raised voices, Vila or Tarrant would come along and separate them, reminding the combatants that Avon needed his rest. It always broke the mood, and Blake needed no prodding to leave.

Tarrant appeared to be coming out of his programming well, gradually finding his feet again. Though the ship was on automatics much of the time, Tarrant had taken it on manual under Vila's half-suspicious supervision a time or two, and afterwards, the young pilot seemed much more alive. He praised the ship, though it fell short when compared to Liberator and even the Scorpio. "We can improve it," he insisted. "It's better than the Scorpio was when we first took it from Dorian. What about a photonic drive, Vila?"

Avon's been working on that. Between him and Orac, we'll have it one day. You helped with that the first time around. Maybe you can do something."

Tarrant sounded eager to start stripping out panels and poking around the ship's innards. "I want to try."

He was coming back to life, though he was still jumpy and tense. He had shed the Federation uniform he'd been wearing when rescued, exchanging it for one of Avon's black costumes. It was too big for him, but he belted it tight and seemed glad of it. He wanted nothing to remind him of Space Command. Blake had seen him start up at an unexpected noise more than once, and he asked Orac to check for pursuit a time or two, as if he didn't dare believe he was finally free of Servalan.

"She never let up," he confided to Blake once when their watches overlapped and Blake had stayed awhile. "I think she must have realized the programming was flawed and likely to break down, given the right stimulus. She couldn't have had the equipment to do it properly once Avon told the galaxy who Sleer was. I think she came away with it unfinished. So she kept at me, asking me if I was loyal, offering me rewards and punishments." He shuddered and avoided Blake's eyes but didn't enlarge upon it. "There were just the two of us, most of the time, though she never confided in me. I was her pilot and her slave and that amused her. I never questioned her. What a fool she must have thought me. And Soolin--" His voice broke off abruptly and he cast an uneasy glance over his shoulder as if he was afraid Avon or Vila had heard him.

A thread of curiosity wound its way through Blake's apathy. There was something wrong here. "Soolin?" he prodded carefully, instilling a note of sympathy into his voice that would once have come naturally.

"She's dead," Tarrant returned hastily. "Just leave it, Blake. It doesn't do any good, and it would only hurt--"

"Hurt whom?" Blake wondered. "Avon?"

"Shooting you nearly finished him," Tarrant said slowly, avoiding Blake's eyes. "When I remember him standing staring down at your body--he didn't even hear the troops come in. I went back for him because he was just standing there looking at you as if he'd killed any hope he'd ever have. I didn't make it. When I woke up Servalan's prisoner, I thought he'd died, that all of you were dead. She told me so. Then she programmed me and I stopped remembering any of you. Except Soolin."

"She let you remember Soolin?" Blake echoed in astonishment. He couldn't guess at Servalan's motives for that.

"Oh, not remember her, Blake. I had no idea she'd been a shipmate of mine. I paid no attention to her either. One doesn't--not to a mutoid."

Blake froze. "You can't mean...one of those mutoids Avon killed..." His voice trailed off in horror whilst he tried to understand the implications. No one ever looked at a mutoid very closely. Devoid of personalities, standardized in clothing and manner, they were all alike, and one tended to forget that once they'd had friends and feelings and loyalties. How it must have amused Servalan to parade the mutoid Soolin in front of Tarrant day after day. Perhaps it had been the test of his conditioning. As long as he didn't notice that the mutoid on the flight deck had once been a friend, the conditioning held.

Sympathetically Blake explained that rationale to Tarrant, who nodded. "I've been thinking that, but it doesn't help. I didn't even make the connection until we were on this ship. She died and it didn't even matter to me except that there was one less threat." He shook his head, running his fingers through his curls, the picture of defeat and misery.

"What of Avon?" he asked, finally raising his eyes and staring at Blake as if he had all the answers. Blake found the mute appeal in the younger man's eyes a threat. Once he might have known how to help him, to help Avon. Now he only wanted to avoid the issue.

"Do we tell him he's killed Soolin too?" Tarrant persisted, grabbing Blake's forearm, his fingers digging in. "You used to have all the answers, or so one would guess from he way Avon searched the galaxy for you after the Andromedan war. Do we tell him?"

"No," a new voice burst out behind them and they turned to find Vila standing there, his face white. Tarrant drew back from Blake to stare at him as if expecting blame.

"It wasn't Soolin any more, Del," the thief said seriously, though he wore a sick expression at Tarrant's story. "It was just a creature wearing her body. She was already dead. Remember that." He advanced carefully, refusing to meet their eyes. "What can it matter now to either of them? Telling him won't bring her back, and it might do him more harm than good. Bad enough you tried to kill him the minute you saw him, Blake. It took months before he was even willing to look at a gun after GP. I watched him force himself to pick one up, to go out on the beach and shoot at rocks and sea birds, his hands shaking so hard he could hardly fire it. He has to be able to use a gun, Blake. Everybody's after him. Without a means of defending himself, he'd be long dead. I won't have him dead!" he insisted fiercely. "If you tell him about Soolin it'll bring all that back to him. I want both of you to forget you ever heard it. Later on, when you...when everything...when the time is right, I'll tell him myself." He squared his shoulders as if accepting a weight much too great for them to bear. "It's my place to do it," he concluded, striding forward to stand before the main screen, resting his hands on the railing there and leaning forward as if he couldn't stand unaided.

Reluctant sympathy flooded through Blake, sympathy for Tarrant who had had his life torn apart much as Blake's had once been sundered on Earth, for Vila, who had nothing left but Avon and who was determined to protect him at all costs, for Avon, who had the worst luck Blake had ever seen. Everything went wrong for him, for all of them. Could that be turned around? Could they find a way to bring something positive into their lives? Would it be worth the risk? Did he want to face the pain that attempting it was sure to bring? He was numb right now, but if he broke off the scabs over his feelings, it would hurt. Could he endure that? Was it worth it?

Then a prickling sensation on the back of his neck made him raise his head and glance around at the corridor. Vila hadn't moved and Tarrant had dropped into the pilot's seat, his forehead bowed over the back of one hand. But there was something...

When he turned, he saw Avon standing in the doorway, a robe loose over his shoulders, his arm in a sling. He must have heard Tarrant's tale of Soolin, or at least Vila's reaction to it, for his face had frozen into shocked immobility. Only his eyes lived, but they lived in torment. He locked them with Blake's as if he couldn't turn away, and for what seemed like hours, the two men stood like that. Then Avon broke the look. "Vila," he said harshly.

Vila jumped and squeaked, spinning around fast. He hadn't know that Avon was there. "Avon! I..."

"Have Orac select a suitable neutral planet in this sector," Avon said in a voice so devoid of feeling that it sounded like a mutoid's. "Lay in a course there at maximum speed and put Blake and Tarrant down." He turned around and started down the corridor.

"But Avon--" Vila burst out, his mouth falling open in horror. "What are you doing? Why do you want to... You heard us? It wasn't your fault. Do you hear me? It wasn't your fault."

Avon stopped but didn't turn round. "And next time it is not my fault, it could be Blake again, or Tarrant, or even you who dies. No, Vila. Put them down on the neutral planet."

Blake's apathy shattered like a bottle exploding and he was splintered with so many conflicting emotions he couldn't get them straight. He saw Tarrant's hands come up and cover his face and Vila's face crumple as if he might cry. Tarrant needed the security of people he knew so badly he might not survive breaking conditioning without it. Blake recognized the feeling; he'd compensated for it by devoting all his energy and devotion to his Cause. Tarrant didn't have that to fall back upon. If Avon went ahead with his plan to rid himself of them, it could do irreparable damage.

Vila, too, had nothing but Avon. Given a chance, the four of them might turn their lives around, but only if Avon permitted it to happen. It would destroy Vila if Avon sent him away too.

As for Blake himself, what else did  _he_  have? His rage at Avon and Gauda Prime had kept him going for a long time, over a year and a half. The sight of Avon had shattered that. He might be torn apart now by the withdrawal symptoms from Servalan's drug, but his mind was intact and he knew that his rage at Avon had been so strong because it was safer than any warmer emotion.

For that same reason, Avon was sending them away. Learning of Soolin's inadvertent death at his hands, he must have equated it to the shooting on Gauda Prime, to the loss of Cally, to Anna Grant's final demise that Vila had told him cautiously as part of his defense of Avon. The reasoning held a perverse logic. If Blake wasn't here, Avon couldn't shoot him.

Blake couldn't accept that. Now that his carefully tended indifference had fractured, he felt a fine, heady dose of anger pumping through his veins, warming him far more than the drug had ever done, bringing him man-alive and ready to fight for what he wanted. He wanted reconciliation.

"Damn you, Avon, don't you dare walk away from me," he cried, buoyed up by a fine and glorious rage. "Turn around and face me when you try to send me away. Yes, try, damn you, for I won't let you do it. Do you imagine for one moment that I will expect such an idiotic sacrifice from you?"

Avon turned slowly and stared at Blake with astonished, unbelieving doubt. He couldn't have been more startled if Orac had bit him. "It isn't your choice, Blake," he returned, but his voice wasn't steady, and his attempt at cold anger was a washout. "I will not accept the responsibility of killing you again. It seems I kill my friends. Why Vila is still alive is a matter of some puzzlement, but it is not because I didn't try."

"Not hard enough," Vila muttered. He looked as if he'd been kicked in the stomach and his eyes glittered with suppressed tears. "You bloody great bastard, if you're so damned clever a murderer, why couldn't you find me on a shuttle that had only one hiding place? Why did you start acting so strangely if not to warn me to head for the hills? This is me, Vila. Look at me. I'm a coward, remember? Don't you think I'd go as far away from you as I could if I was afraid you'd ever hurt me? Yet I'm here. I didn't realize it for a long time, but I'm here because I  _trust_  you. I care about you, fool that I am. Now look at Tarrant. How much do you know about breaking conditioning?"

All of them stared at Tarrant, who sat sprawled in his chair, his face still hidden in his hands. "He's been doing well since we started for the base but he  _needs_  us, Avon. All of us. He broke conditioning for you, for all of us. Conditioning breaks everything inside you, all your certainties, all your beliefs in yourself. I know. They could never alter my head permanently but they managed it temporarily a few times. I always came out of it. If Tarrant feels anything like I did then, it's a wonder he's done as well as he has. I'm sorry, Del," he added in a quieter voice. He'd never called him that in the old days, but did it consistently now, and Blake had noticed Tarrant reacting to it, first with surprise and then with a wary gratitude. Blake hadn't realized until now that Vila had been doing it on purpose, understanding what the pilot had been going through. This was not the same Vila he'd known on the Liberator.

Vila turned back to Avon. "I can't let you put him off the ship. I won't do it. Or Blake either. Blake needs us too, but not as much as you need him. Come in and sit down. We're not going to die if you look at us. You're not a whatever-it-is, a basilisk. You might be unlucky, but you're not jinxed. I'm alive, and Blake's alive, and Tarrant's alive, and we're planning to stay that way. We're willing to take the risk. Aren't we, Blake? Aren't we, Del?"

Tarrant nodded, scrubbing a hand across his face as if afraid to let Avon see tears there. He wasn't any more comfortable with weakness than the rest of them, probably less so. Pilots were supposed to be gods after all: the Federation trained them to believe it. None of them was conspicuously good at admitting their weaknesses.

Avon's face was still shut away from them and he looked like he might bolt. Blake cast a glance around the flight deck, at Tarrant's face, cautious with wary hope, at Vila's determination. He shook his head as if to clear away the rest of the cobwebs and charged forward grabbing Avon by the upper arms, only moderating his grip at the last moment so that he wouldn't put any strain on his wound.

"Avon, listen to me. We're not leaving. We're coming back to Aristo with you--yes, I know where your base is: Orac told me, having no reason not to. You call it home, you and Vila and Orac as well. We need a home too. The fact that you consider it that says something for you. Don't make it a prison for yourself, somewhere to hide from me and Tarrant and the fear of our deaths. If you hadn't shot Soolin, she would have killed us all without hesitation and without remorse. If you must blame someone for her death, blame Servalan, who had it done to her. Once the process began, she wasn't Soolin any more. Servalan turned her into an enemy, and it was not reversible. For all we know, Tarrant killed Servalan--we'll find out later if she survived and if so, we'll see she's dead. But that doesn't matter right now. Forget revenge for the moment. You're hurt and not thinking clearly. I'm not sure either of us ever thought clearly about each other anyway. But whatever you do, don't drive us away, because we won't go. If I have to shake sense into you, I'll do it.

"Ever since you revived, you've been going out of your way to make me angry. I thought at first that you were trying to drive me away, but I was wrong, wasn't I? You weren't doing anything of the sort. You were trying to make me mad enough to bring me back to life. Well, you've done it now. This is me, Blake, and I'm back. You can't search half the galaxy for me and then throw me off the ship the first time it gets rocky. I'm willing to risk being your friend, Avon, and I want your help to put an end to people like Servalan. I'll fight for that. None of us are quite ready to fight the Federation yet. I'm not sure why you're even out of bed. You can barely stand."

He guided an unresisting Avon onto the flight deck and steered him over to the couch that ran along the wall beside the main screen. "Sit there."

Avon sat obediently. "You always were bossy, Blake," he muttered in a weary voice. "Damn you, don't you see, I can't face any more of this?" It was a desperate plea for understanding. He was on the edge of breaking and it terrified him for he had always held on, fought back, no matter what the opposition. This time the opposition and his allies were the same, and he didn't know how to fight them.

"Tarrant can't face breaking programming without us, and Vila can't face being brave without you, and I don't think I have ever been able to function properly without you there, telling me what I'm doing wrong. And you, Avon. Look at me." Avon raised eyes that were bruised with pain and fear. He didn't usually allow so much of his feelings to show. "Now listen," Blake forged on. There is no rule that says that Kerr Avon is infallible or that he must carry on alone. You  _need_  us, Avon, and I, for one, am glad of it. It means you're human. I can deal with you human."

"I'm not certain I can," Avon replied in a shaky voice.

"Then let go.  _Be_  human for once. Rely on us and we'll rely on you. At first it will be the blind leading the blind but we'll grow into something more, something strong. Vila named this ship Entropy. Let's prove him wrong. Servalan represents entropy. We don't have to unless you let us. I won't walk away because you're afraid to take a chance. Vila never left you even when he was half afraid of you. Tarrant needs you."

"God help me," Tarrant muttered, his mouth twisting into a wry grin.

Avon glanced at him in surprise, then faint answering amusement darted across his face. "Ah, Blake, I don't know if I can," he repeated.

"Then I'll bloody well make sure of it." He shook Avon's good arm lightly for emphasis. "We're alive, the four of us. We might be an ill assorted lot, and we'll probably quarrel constantly but we'll be a team all the same. We've lost good friends. You might have shot Soolin--without recognizing her--to save our lives. I killed Gan because I was too stubborn to see past an obsession. Which do you think the easier to live with?"

"Knowing you, it is an even bet," Avon returned softly. He sighed deeply, averting his eyes. "You win, Blake. Stay. Come to Aristo. I never wanted to drive you away."

That was a beginning. Blake resisted an urge to hug Avon, suspecting the man was too brittle to endure tenderness yet. Vila had no such restraints. He plopped down beside him on the couch with exaggerated, puppyish relief. "I'm glad we got Blake back, aren't you, Avon? At least you'll listen to him sometimes. He never listens to me," he said in an aside to Blake and Tarrant, grinning in spite of a tear that trickled unnoticed down one cheek. "I have a terrible life."

"And well deserved," Avon retorted, then he sagged against the thief, not in a faint or collapse from his injury but in exhausted relief. He wasn't well enough to face the room's emotions yet. Raising sleepy eyes he studied Blake suspiciously. "I know you, Blake. You are sitting there thinking that a good hug will put things right. I assure you it won't." He sounded nearly normal, but there was a quiet contentment in his voice that Blake had not heard there before.

"Oh, won't it?" Vila cried and threw caution to the winds, hugging Avon fiercely. Avon permitted it, perhaps even welcomed it, pasting on a look of false irritation.

"You are squeezing right over my wound," he observed pointedly.

"Sorry." Undaunted, Vila shifted fractionally, squeezed once more and let go. "Anyone else?" he asked, drawing back.

Tarrant let out a delighted crow of laughter. "Selling tickets, Vila?"

That made Blake chuckle. He surged forward and astonished Avon by pulling him to his feet instead. "I'll wait until you're well, Avon," he explained. "I tend to be more exuberant than Vila when I'm in a good mood, and I don't want to hurt you. As for now, you are going back to bed and you're staying there until we reach Aristo if we have to sit on you."

"You'll pay for this, Blake," Avon replied, but he allowed Blake to support him carefully.

Vila took Avon's other side, careful not to jar his wound, and Tarrant bounced up with sudden resiliance and joined them. He dropped a hand on Avon's shoulder, whether in thanks, acceptance, or just friendship, and Avon didn't shrug him off. "I seem to have acquired a litter of puppies," he observed sleepily. "Who's watching the flight deck?"

"Orac," Tarrant called over his shoulder, "take us home to Aristo, and the sooner the better."

*Hmmph,* Orac snorted. *I have had enough of your petty interruptions. I shall take us to Aristo because it is the appropriate place for me to complete my researches and not because you order it.*

"You've let him get out of hand, Avon," Blake chided as they started back to the medical unit.

"One never  _lets_  Orac do anything," Vila corrected, unobtrusively supporting Avon, who was nearly asleep on his feet. "He just does it."

"Then we'll let him do more," Tarrant replied. "One more thing, Orac."

*What is it now?*

"Come up with a new name for this ship," the young pilot replied. "I won't fly something called Entropy. Besides, it's no longer appropriate. Do your best, Orac."

Blake laughed. "And make it quick. Now for the rest of us, I think we'd best carry him."

"'cn walk, Blake," Avon murmured against Blake's shoulder. But his hand clutched at Blake's arm as the other three of them picked him up and bore him off to bed.

The End


End file.
